Remembering Her Smile
by Schadenfraude
Summary: Years ago, Zihark fell in love. But she's gone and Zihark fights a war as his memories turn bitter. He never did deal with guilt very well.


Bloodiest thing I've written as of yet (not that it means much since I don't write much gore anyway). That's the warning for anyone who doesn't like violence.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

The battles were hard and the pace was merciless. If they weren't fighting against the Disciples of Order and their endless ranks of undead, they were rushing their way to the capital through rain, mud and thorns.

Zihark couldn't remember how many swords he had worn down or how many pieces of his armour had cracked. He couldn't remember how many times he had looked for someone just after a battle only to find that they were gone. He couldn't remember how many fights he had fought or, with a burn wound on his back and a javelin in his side, how many times he thought he wouldn't live to see the end of the battle, much less the end of the war.

But through the pain, the stress and the long nights in the infirmary, Zihark always remembered a cat laguz with short red hair and deep green eyes.

She was a Gallian visiting the Crimea-Daein border city where Zihark happened to live at the time. She had never visited Daien before but she had heard the rumours. Was it true that a nation full of bigots could really exist? She was a bit too curious and naive for her own good.

Never having been one for duty, she snuck off from her assignment to Crimea but only got as far as the border city. That was where she met Zihark, the man who offered her money to rent a room at an inn that was well-known for being the only one in the area. The owner took advantage of that and charged a small ransom for boarding. She asked if she might stay at Zihark's home for a day instead of wasting his gold. She wouldn't be a bother, honest. Zihark agreed.

It started with them sharing a bed because she couldn't bear the idea of having her host sleep on the floor (he wouldn't let her sleep on the floor either), and in the end, she never made it into Daein. She said to him, "When you think about it, bigotry isn't really that interesting."

Zihark remembered laughing at that. He remembered how she loved cherries, the juice staining her lips a tangy red he knew so well. He remembered how she picked out the most flamboyant cloaks to wear, because if she was going to hide her identity, she would do so with flair. He remembered how she said he smelled of iron, old leather and the fragrant herbs he often picked for her, a scent she claimed she could pick out from a crowd of hundreds. He remembered how she never raised a hand against any beorc and even held back his fists because, as she put it, the cycle of hatred was an ugly thing.

The day she left was a beautiful day with clear skies and a gentle breeze. She was going home, back to Gallia where she had friends and family waiting. There were her superiours as well, and they were likely livid at how she readily abandoned her Crimean post to go frolic; just wait until they heard she had lived with a beorc man for all that time!

He promised her everything to try and convince her to stay--his protection, his love, his commitment, everything he could've offered down to the last breath in his lungs. But she shook her head, smiled a sad smile and said, "I was never going to stay forever. You knew it too. But I don't regret anything."

It had been her idea. Their last day together was spent holding hands out in public. They shared a passionate kiss by the fountain in the town square where crowds always gathered to trade and fraternize. Her idea, of course. She wanted to end their relationship with a bang and see the reactions of the people around them. The spectators were, of course, scandalized. When her hood fell off her head, it revealed her twitching ears for all to see. Zihark spent the rest of the day on the run with her. He was breathless and tired but listening to her laugh as she ran was worth it.

The last Zihark ever saw of her was a hooded traveller carrying a packed bag. He knew she was going to shed the cloak as soon as she was far enough into the woods. There, she would transform into her beast form and make her way back to Gallia.

"I've never been good with farewells," she admitted.

Zihark replied, "Me neither."

"I've got another idea then."

"Will we be running across the countryside again? Those mobs sure are fast."

She laughed and held Zihark's hands. "Not this time, I'm afraid. Since we're so incompetent with saying goodbye, I'd thought we'd play a game of pretend instead."

"Isn't that a game for kids?"

She pouted. "Will you listen or not?"

"All right, what's this game of yours?"

Zihark felt her fingers intertwine with his, felt them tie themselves to one another. She said, "We'll pretend that we'll see each other soon. Since that's the case, we won't have to be sad at all. None of that crying either. Wouldn't it be nice to smile at each other and know that we'll meet again tomorrow? It would be the reunion of the beautiful Gallian woman and the gentle Daein man. I'll see you and say, 'Zihark, you're just as handsome, kind, and handsome as I remembered!' "

"You really are a kid," said Zihark as he leaned in closer to whisper in her ear, "and you said handsome twice."

"I know how to appreciate the finer qualities in a man."

So that was that. They shared a kiss before she let go of his hands. Zihark watched her step back into the woods, never turning around until they lost sight of one another. Zihark did his best to play her game. Thankfully, she was much better at it. Her smile was the last thing Zihark ever remembered of her.

**ooooo**

Hate was a strong word. Zihark disliked using it especially since he knew many of his own countrymen would spit and revile at laguz without ever having known one outside of the vicious lies that everyone seemed so ready to believe. In his eyes, hate wasn't something petty enough to be justified by prejudice. But sometimes, Zihark found it necessary to hate when the situation called for it.

He hated the swamp.

The mud sucked at his boots and the water drenched his clothes as if the sweat and humidity weren't torture enough. All around him were dull shades of brown, green and gray. He found it hard to bear the horrible smell of rot permeating through the water from whatever unfortunate swamp-buried creature that laid beneath the murky, opaque surface. Not to mention the mosquitoes. Between the sweaty heat, the cesspool quality of the water and the bug bites, Zihark could safely say that he did not like the swamp.

Overhead, he heard the cry of hawks and ravens. Zihark looked up. The reeds grew well past his head and obscured his view, but thankfully, that meant the ferals didn't have a clear view of him either. He could hear them cawing and squawking. The sound was horrible, not only because it was loud enough to grate against the eardrums of anyone listening, but because their cries were raspy and strained, not at all like the strong calls of Tibarn and his men. From the sound of it, it seemed like their throats had suffered terrible abuse from having something forced down them again and again.

The feral drug. Just another thing he hated.

Laguz of all kinds had been enslaved to the vile substance. Some would call the drug a crime against nature and not without good reason. It forced them into their transformed state, eliminating their weakness at the price of their sanity and free will. It was not an equal trade at all.

Even now, Zihark could spot a feral dragon in between the reeds. The swordsman thought of the dragon as a he. Perhaps he was really a female, but Zihark didn't know for sure and anything was better than referring to the dragon as an it.

Dragons were awe-inspiring creatures with diamond-hard scales, sinuous muscles, intelligent eyes and strength enough to crush rocks. They sported long, sharp fangs and claws just in case anyone ever thought to turn their back on one. But the dragon he saw in the swamp stumbled past floating logs without any of the majesty of his sane cousins.

By some hapless twist of timing, Zihark heard a squelch as his boot sunk into the swamp mud. The dragon quickly turned at the sound. Zihark cursed. His boot was stuck fast.

The dragon approached, lifting one leg past the other and wavering whenever he lost his balance. With every step, he came closer until he towered right before the swordsman, no more than an arm's length away. His muscular, ridged neck stretched far above the swaying reeds, sweeping from side to side. Even as Zihark stiffened and froze with his breath stuck in his throat, he felt an odd mix of disgust and pity. The dragon's eyes were a clouded pink. The feral drug had stolen his vision.

That was when Zihark remembered the wyrmkiller strapped to his back. The dragon turned right at him, gray pupils and pinkish whites fixed onto Zihark's face. Zihark's hand shot to the cloth-bound hilt.

The dragon, his eyes unfocused and blank, started to pull the reeds apart in search of what he had heard earlier. He turned to and fro, finally settling his snout right in front of Zihark's face and sniffing vigourously to confirm if anything was there. Every scar lining his weathered face stood out, pink lines against black scales. Whether the scars were from his proud past as a laguz warrior or from captivity as a feral was hard to tell.

Sweat ran down Zihark's brow. His grip on the wyrmkiller tightened.

Slipping his foot out of the immobilized boot, Zihark leapt into the air and drove his sword into the dragon's heart, gritting his teeth when a roar of pain vibrated through the air and through his sword, arms, shoulders, everywhere, making the dragon's pain serrated edges, specially designed to cut through dragonhide, tore through flesh and bone with surprising ease. Zihark pulled the sword out with a fierce tug and dropped to the ground with a splash. Blood sprayed out the wound, dusting Zihark with spots of red. The dragon roared and thrashed before falling into the swamp with one last, drawn-out groan.

Stealing the once-proud creature's life had been no harder than chopping firewood, just one good blow. Zihark grimaced. He hated thinking how easy killing the dragon had been.

The dead body laid there unmoving in the water, slowly sinking deeper into the mud. At the watery foot of the grave were nothing more than pitcher plants bloated with offerings of insect husks. There were no solemn mourners, no marble tombstones and no lace-dressed flowers. Just frogs and leeches.

Zihark hated the swamp.

"Bravo, bravo!"

The sound of clapping startled Zihark. He turned, and with the dragon's body having crushed many of the surrounding reeds, he could clearly see an old man dressed in sombre grey robes. His wrinkled face, pale and white, contrasted greatly with his black fur lining of his robes. His dark, greasy hair was pulled back into a ponytail. His monocle-clad leer, his wide, toothy grin and his clapping hands gave the impression of a madman watching a tragedy through opera glasses from some seat in the back where no one could hear him laugh.

"Izuka," said Zihark quietly.

"How are you?" asked Izuka. He stared down the swordsman from higher ground--a raised island that kept his feet dry as ferals, beorc and laguz around him fought for their lives. Izuka's monocle glinted in the dim light and Zihark felt like he was being observed far too closely. "Did you find it a worthy opponent? Sadly, their life spans are a bit short, but my work is formidable, no?"

Zihark's grip on the wyrmkiller tightened. The hilt bit into his palm.

"Shut up."

Izuka sighed and shook his head. "How typical of an unenlightened fool. You sympathize with beasts. But that's all they are. _Beasts_."

One second Zihark was standing there and listening to words coming from the madman's smirking lips and the next he found himself dashing through the water with his sword arm pulled back and a wordless scream in his throat.

The feral cat came out of nowhere. A blind spot, perhaps. Maybe he had been too focused on separating Izuka's head from his shoulders to notice the feral leaping at him through the air with outstretched arms and unsheathed claws.

It was all that Zihark could do to keep the creature at bay by lodging his sword between its teeth. He grunted, his nose a matter of inches away from touching that of the cat whose weight was pressing down on him. Scarred paws left long trails of gashes in the swordsman's clothing. Zihark couldn't help but note that the scars looked very much like bite marks. Maybe it had gotten into a fight with another feral. Maybe it had tried to bite its own legs off.

The memories came unbidden to him. Short red hair, green eyes, their foreheads pressed together until their noses touched and her smile teasing him an inch away from his lips.

He had to do this quick.

In one fluid motion, Zihark kicked the cat in the chest with his sword following into the creature's throat. Its dying gurgle of a howl was unfit for anyone's ears, but Zihark moved on, past the poor creature he had just slain and past everything else. He had eyes for one foe only.

Izuka was left no time to even gasp when Zihark dashed towards him and pressed his sword against the madman's neck--red, cold steel against sagging skin. One quick movement was all it would take to end another life.

"I want to hear you apologize," said Zihark. "Repent for what you've done to the laguz!"

"Laguz!" said Izuka as he scowled. "I spit on that name. Beasts have no need of some _goddess-given name_. You collect useless apologies. You are a fool, boy."

Zihark frowned. His respect for the elderly be damned; Izuka needed to die.

But before he could deal the finishing blow, his arm was locked in place. Zihark's eyes widened as his throat tightened.

Izuka laughed. From behind his back, he drew out a ball of black energy that throbbed and hummed in his hand. Izuka pushed the sword away as easily as if Zihark's arm was made of straw.

"A fool."

Zihark had a vague recollection of being lifted off the ground by his throat and hanging in the air with some invisible force crushing his airway. He clutched at his neck, but there was nothing there, nothing to grab at and wrench away. No sooner had he started kicking desperately for solid ground underneath his feet was he thrown headfirst into the dirt. Zihark coughed and lurched on his hands and knees as the ground spun beneath him.

At the edge of his vision, he caught sight of Izuka approaching. He stepped through the mud before stopping by the corpse of the feral cat. Izuka made a show of stepping on its torn throat.

"St-stop it," said Zihark in between coughs.

"You ignore your impending death for some dead beast? The one that _you_ killed, might I remind you." The cat's head flopped away from the toe of Izuka's grime-stained boots. It lolled on a broken neck as blood seeped through its mud-matted fur.

Zihark glared as best he could. "You're sick."

Izuka smirked. "You are as unoriginal as you are stupid, boy."

With a flick of his bony wrist, another spell gathered at Izuka's palm. Once more, Zihark felt his limbs lock into place. The swordsman cursed as he struggled for the wyrmkiller he had dropped. He could barely feel his fingers through the cold and the dark magic spell, so he worked slowly, flexing one finger at a time until he could bring all ten under his control without the madman realizing it. Izuka stared at him, amused. "I could kill you in moments, but you choose to worry for a dead animal?"

"Shut... shut up!" shouted Zihark. Without looking, he worked another finger free and hoped he wouldn't be noticed. He would make the best of every second he had. "Let me go!"

"You are in no position to make demands," said Izuka with a laugh. He twisted his heel into the cat's flank as though the body weren't desecrated enough. "How fitting. You sympathize with beasts, so you will die like a dog. How fitting indeed!"

He laughed as he raised his hand higher into the air, dark energy swirling above his head. Zihark could imagine that laughter echoing through torch-lit dungeons and mingling with the reek of decay. How many laguz had heard that laughter as they grew insane in cages padded with the limp, rotting bodies of their brothers and sisters? One fist clenched and broke through invisible bonds. Zihark grit his teeth.

"I won't be the one dying today."

The dark magic spell was undone. Shreds of it dissipated into the air when Zihark tore through his invisible bonds and grabbed his wyrmkiller. Before Izuka could realize what was happening, Zihark stabbed him in the stomach and pushed until he felt the hilt slam against Izuka's body.

**ooooo**

_"Zihark! No!"_

_She screamed behind him. A so-called vigilante laid dead on the ground, a large, bloody hole in his chest and a red puddle spreading around his spread-eagle form. He stared into the sky, wide-eyed and mouth gaping._

_Blood dripped off Zihark's blade, but it wasn't enough. He looked down the alley where the rest of them had escaped. Zihark glared down the stone-paved path and said, "His friends got away--wait here!"_

_He started running but hands grabbed his arm and pulled him back so hard he stumbled. "No!" she cried again. Her cry pushed the loud hum of battle from Zihark's head, and now, he finally noticed that she was sobbing. Why hadn't he noticed sooner?_

_"No, no, no!" she cried, trying her best to be coherent through her sobs even though Zihark heard her distress well enough in her hoarse, strained voice. He stood there limply with the corpse but a few feet away._

_Zihark forced the words past his lips. "They tried to... to... those laguz weapons..."_

_She continued to cry, and Zihark suddenly felt that his excuse is inadequate for what he has done. _

_"Please, don't do it! If you go after them, if you let your anger get ahold of you--this isn't like you at all, you're not Zihark!"_

_His blade fell from fingers loosened at the sight of tears carving rivers down her cheeks and a heavy weight settled in his heart. With a lump in his throat, he wrapped her in a tight embrace. He wished his hands weren't so bloody so that he could run his fingers through her hair the way he always did when he comforted her._

_"I'm sorry... I won't go after them."_

_"Promise?" she asked, eyes shining with tears and a fledgling hope._

_"I promise," he said as he pressed his lips to her forehead. "So please," he whispered, "smile for me."_

_Her sobs were gone, and the tears started to dry. She smiled, shyly at first, but then she looked up into his eyes. "So you won't ever do that again?"_

_"Never."_

_They kissed and he swore that he could taste the smile on her lips--sweet and soft._

**ooooo**

The madman choked on his own blood and his legs gave way. The only thing that kept him standing was the cold metal thrust through his back. A more merciful opponent would have gone for the head and a swift death, but Zihark was not in the mood for mercy.

It was funny how quickly Izuka's expression changed from one of mad delight to one of panic. Zihark could feel the warm blood soaking through his gloves as the colour drained from Izuka's face. Where was his condescending laughter now? His ill-conceived confidence, his disgusting romance with science and his sadistic smile; they were all gone. In the wake of Izuka's quickly disappearing strength was a little man bent double over the sword shoved through his stomach.

"N-no," said Izuka as he stared down at the hilt with disbelief etched across his face. His grey, wrinkled hands grabbed the hilt. But it was real. The steel in his body and the blood flowing out were as real as the ground beneath his trembling legs. "It can't be... can't be over... My experiments are... incomplete!"

Anger surged through Zihark. Before he could stop himself, his sword twisted in the madman's gut, wrenching organs from their place and spilling blood from ravaged tissue. A feeble gasp escaped dry, cracked lips. Zihark leaned into Izuka's shocked face.

"Your experiments should never have existed."

Fear-filled eyes widened. Izuka's skin was drawn taut around a gaping mouth and bulging eyes. He lifted a shaking hand in surrender and croaked, "M-mercy..."

Zihark knocked him to the ground, pinning Izuka to the boggy dirt. The swordsman's face was dark with shadows and his eyes were white with rage.

"There will be no mercy for you."

For a few short moments, there was nothing but silence. There were no cats howling, no hawks screeching, no dragons roaring. Then, Zihark heard the ferals fall. Dragons toppled to the ground with ground-shaking thuds. Hawks and ravens spiraled into the water. Cats and tigers gave their last roars before slumping into the mud. With the puppeteer dead, the strings fell loose. All the ferals were dead. Their corpses would fuel the swamp's stench. That only served to remind Zihark that he hated the swamp.

Zihark stood up. He made for his sword, still lodged in Izuka, but thought better of it when he saw Izuka dead on the ground with an outstretched hand that no one would ever see fit to take and comfort. The smell of blood and entrails hung heavily in the air. Zihark would rather lose a sword than use anything that had been so intimate with a man's insides.

As soon as he remembered he was the one who had done it, Zihark grimaced. He took another look at the madman who had died such a pitiful death.

Izuka's robes were torn at his midsection, giving him the appearance of a man who had been taken in the hands of a giant and twisted at the waist. He looked much like a life-sized doll that had spilled its stuffing from a tear at the stomach, but instead of linen and cotton, innards spilled from his torn flesh. They were a hideous shade of bloodied pink and orange, a colour that was never meant to be seen. Blood pooled beneath the body and Izuka seemed ready to sink into the red earth. Zihark's abandoned sword completed the picture, red flowing from the line where grey met pink.

Zihark felt his stomach lurch.

_His hands are bloody, bright red and dripping wet_

"I'm sorry," he said to no one but a memory, "but he deserved it--"

_She's crying, his chest feels funny, like he's a thousand pounds heavier_

"--he was less than human, nothing but a blackheart--"

_Her voice, her beautiful voice all strained and hoarse_

"--didn't you see what he was doing to them, to those poor laguz--"

_Her hands grabbing at his arm, grabbing but the fabric slips through her fingers_

"--I couldn't let him live, not someone like him--"

_She's crying_

He cried.

_And the world's a little colder_

Zihark let the tears drip off his chin.

"I'm sorry."

_So very sorry_

**ooooo**

That night, Zihark had a dream

He was in a forest, judging by the trees and foliage. His cat laguz stood a short distance away with her red hair and green eyes. Zihark saw her smile at him. She was running, running towards him when suddenly, she was running away. Zihark watched her from behind as she leapt into the arms of another man. Bemused, Zihark realized that man was himself. His replicate was younger and had shorter hair, but nonetheless, it was him.

_'Zihark!' _she said in a voice Zihark remembered so well. _'You're just as handsome, kind, and handsome as I remembered!'_

The replicate said, _'You said handsome twice.'_

_'I know how to appreciate the finer qualities in a man.'_

Zihark tried to speak up because he was pretty sure that he was the real Zihark and not some strange clone. But he couldn't. His lips parted and his throat strained against his collar, but he had no voice. Where did it go?

Then, Zihark heard her scream. They were turned towards him, her face and the replicate's face frozen in horror.

Though Zihark hadn't said anything, it seemed she had read his mind. _'No, no, no!' _she cried,_ 'You're not Zihark!'_

His replicate came bearing down on him, his wyrmslayer raised high in the air. Zihark raised his arms in front of himself and saw that his gloves were already caked with dried blood.

Replicate Zihark shouted, _'There will be no mercy for you!'_

And the sword came down on him. Even in his dream, Zihark wondered if this was what he looked like during battle; a man with hell in his eyes, a mouth sculpted into a vengeful scream, bloodied from the smear on his cheeks to the toes of his boots, so much blood, blood blood blood blood.

Maybe she was right.

**OOOOOOOOOO**

Done. (According to the document properties, I started this on 01/29/08, ha ha.) I'm going to go do something that's less depressing and doesn't have any weirdo angst dreams. Also, I played around with dark magic a bit. Whatever works.

Anyway, feedback would be greatly appreciated. Please review as you see fit. Thank you for reading :)


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